Crossing

My right hand--
when I cross myself--
patterns me with Presence
--Father, Son,
and Holy Ghost--
here in my head, my heart
(where I need it most),
my left side and my right.
Thus crossed before the cross,
I am signed both with
death and life,
the intersection of
darkness with light.

But with that crossing
in whatever holy place,
my dextrous right hallows
its sinister fellows
Through Grace
rather than competing,
the agile blesses
the awkward part,
the strong (the one
that feeds me when I'm eating)
exalts the weak.

At Eucharist, or at table
for any sustaining meal,
the food I manage with
my right hand also feeds
the part less able
on its own to spoon or speak
for its own needs
So here I kneel,
left hand cupped under right,
taking for both enough bread
for the journey,
for each enough strength
for the week.

--Luci Shaw (1928-), American poet and Episcopal layperson, from What the Light Was Like, 2006